


Bad Things

by laissemoidanser



Series: Hunting notes [1]
Category: True Detective
Genre: AU, M/M, Stripper, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laissemoidanser/pseuds/laissemoidanser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marty has no idea of what he's going to find at the strip bar</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Chinese by [hieroglyphics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics) is now available [here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11845980/chapters/26742582)

Shaky staircase leads Marty to a narrow dim passage. From there he steps into a club which is a sweltering space stuffed with delirious crazy folks. Marty is looking for someone, he frowns against the poisonous air filled with cigarette smoke, deafening music beats and blinding flashes of light. When he finally manages to squeeze his way to the opposite end of the club, he carries away hundreds of foreign smells and puts up with the realization of it. The shirt under his jacket is soaked with sweat, his hair all tousled, but he keeps moving forward with admirable determination, shows his badge to a faceless guard who moves aside slowly, letting him in VIP section.

A loud noise is cut off with heavy wall and Marty sighs with relief. He stops for a moment, puts one hand on his hip while rubbing his eyes wearily with another; his vision is still full of bright flashes. Then he takes a deep gulp of clean air and goes forward. The VIP section is almost soulless, empty except for few separate groups of people gathering at the bar counters, talking quietly under the shadows filled only with subdued blue and red neon glow. Marty walks up to a counter, orders a glass of whiskey, looking around curiously, trying to detect possible suspect out of every stranger, but they all seem to be quite ordinary people.

Soon he seems to be losing any interest in this task, lost in thoughts, but his attention is at alert again when everyone starts heading towards the small round stages, each of similar semi-circular shape with a pole in the center. Marty waits, thinking now that his job is not that bad and has its bright sides. Once girls in tiny skirts and tops come up to the poles, he smiles to himself and repeats this thought in mind.

But Marty's here for a reason. He remembers about the task, drinks his whiskey up and gets to his feet, passing by the poles on his way, passing by the people with their greedy eyes fixed on the girls. Marty is lost in contemplation of one of them for a moment, that in red high-heeled boots, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. She catches his eye, turns to him and leans over the stage, inviting to come closer. Marty smiles at her, but shakes his head and walks on, feeling filled up with temptation.

His goal is that backstage door and he decides he must get over with all the shit assigned to him today, but suddenly his attention is caught by the secret room hidden behind the translucent curtain. Blazing blue shines through it in time with the slow music. Without even considering his actions, Marty goes right there towards the light, pulls the edge of the curtain up and steps inside.

Most of the guests also gathered here and they are noisy, looking at the stage with admiration. Marty follows their gazes and freezes, his eyes widen in surprise. The dancer at the pole is not a girl but a man. Tall, his body lithe, taut. His face is almost invisible; the flaps of his cowboy hat cast mysterious shadow over it, emphasizing his chiseled cheekbones. By this time he’s got almost every piece of clothing gone except for the high cowboy boots and a tiny strap of leather underwear. He enjoys all the attention, smiles playfully, showing white teeth and beautiful dimples. His lithe body bends and arches seductively with the music, hands stroking his rippling muscles when suddenly he leans toward the crowd and encourages them to get even closer, pulling ecstatic thrill out of them. He steps so very close to the edge of the stage, puts his strong legs apart and achingly slowly, does the split, muscles on his legs twitching with tension. All the hands are eagerly reaching for him, for his body, and Marty fights the urge to join them. He is hard in his pants, never thought he could get a hard-on for a guy. Marty looks around at a loss and realizes to his surprise that there are men in the crowd as well as women. The dancer, is basking in admiration, even allows them to touch him. A thin strip of leather underwear is full of banknotes. For a moment his eyes meet Marty’s - a flash of blue from under the flap of his cowboy hat. He smiles at him, that son of a bitch, then gets back up on his feet deftly, turns his back to everyone, spreads his hands out and walks away, music dies down with him. The audience demands encore, but hopelessly.

To hell with the task! Marty sure wants to start some interrogation here.


	2. Tamed

He greets Marty with a dry nod. Walks to the couch, and falls into it wearily. Here, backstage he looks surprisingly older than he seemed at the pole. Weariness at the corners of his eyes. He takes a drag on his cigarette and stares thoughtfully at the space in front of him. His body covered in a black robe, nothing else. It takes some time and effort for Marty to form a proper question.

“What's your name? “

“Crash”.

“That a name? And the second name?”

“What you want?” a counter-question.

“What do you know about Emily Kerf?”

Crash looks at him for a moment, wisp of a smile on his face, and shakes his head.

“Haven’t heard shit”, he drags on the cigarette one more time.

“Look, cheeky mouth, you better start answering my questions. Otherwise, I can become one hell of bad luck for you”. Crash stands up and walks over to Marty, looks deep into his eyes, discovering the depths of piercing blue there, even deeper than his own.

“Look, cop. Or should I call you ai _detective_ , _sir_? I don’t have any idea of what you're trying to find here and why you asking me. If you gonna threaten me - I am clean, just a side job here at this bar and ain’t it quite a success, huh? Nothing illegal about it”.

He smiles Marty in the face, bites his lower lip and wiggles his eyebrows playfully.

“Of course, if you liked my little performance there, come again, I won’t mind”.

“Well, fuck you”, Marty waves him away.  “Trust me; it’s not that easy to get rid of me”.

Crash keeps smiling at him, but the smile never reaches his eyes, there is something sad and tragic in them. Marty leaves him alone with those thoughts, realizing that this guy is hardly of any help. He was not sure what he wanted to find here in the first place – would’ve been so much better to just stick to the original plan.His little interrogation is a fail. No one would give him any information on Emily case. And Marty is hardly one of those true detectives who take up an investigation and won’t let it go until they get to the truth of things. Definitely not. Convinced that he can’t establish any connections without risk, he is ready to leave the state of things hanging and wait humbly for this case to be overtaken by someone else. After all, there is no shortage in murders and accidents. Problem is, he keeps thinking about Crash and that place behind the curtain, when he first saw him. He’s drawn back there not by his own will, just by the desire to look at the forbidden fruit one more time. He tells Quesada he wants to take a better look at this investigation, that he thinks he might dig something out of this place. All the bullshit to get there he knows not where.

Second time Marty hesitates at his car, even considers smoking a cigarette, although it is one habit given up long time ago. He is nervous, obviously, because he still hasn’t found a believable excuse as to why the hell he’s come here again. He walks into the bar and this is it, his persistencehas run dry. The secret room is quietly blazing with light again, but he decides not to go inside. Instead he spends his time, God knows how long, eternity maybe, at the bar counter, till the lounge is almost empty. When Crash joins him, he’s hardly surprised, because that’s what he expected from the start.

“What, you again?” Crash asks, featly climbing on a bar chair. “What you huntin’ here after, man? What you tryin’ to flush out?

“Today. Nothing”, Marty admits frankly. He looks over the poles and adds, “Simply enjoying the place”.

“Bullshit”, Crash declares, taking a cigarette out of a pack with his mouth.

“Whatever”.

“You mind?” Crash waves a cigarette in front of Marty.

Marty shakes his head.

“What's your name?”

“Martin”.

“Martin”, Crash echoes as if tasting the name on his tongue. He smiles approvingly.

“And yours?”

“Don’t you know it already?”

“Come on! What kind of name is that? I mean your _real_ name!”

Crash shakes his head.

“Care to buy me a drink, Martin?”

Marty hesitates, but gives in.

“What you having?”

“Just a bottle of beer”.

“Okay”.

Marty holds money out to the bartender, who only shakes his head and throws a reproachful glance at Crash.

“He’s bitching with you, buddy, all that sweet talk, don’t you see? This one’s on the house”.

“That's so?” Marty puts his money back in his pocket.

“I forgot, swear to God. Alright, Martin, let’s make it my treat, then”, Crash pats him on the shoulder friendly.

“Fuck you”.

However, half an hour later they’re already heart-talking and Marty forgets to notice how the amount of consumed alcohol starts to spin his head around.

  “Why won’t you have more?” he asks Crash, pointing at his half-empty beer bottle, still the first one. Crash exhales a perfect ring of smoke, crosses his legs gracefully.

“I fear the consequences”.

“What, afraid to get lost on the way home?” Marty chuckles.

“Not exactly. My mind is, say, fried a little. I perceive the world in a different way. Like, I can feel the taste of colors, see the smells and such”.

“Really?” Marty marvels.

“Yup. You know, I drink too much, it might turn out all this is just one big hell of hallucination. Take you, for example. What if I’m imagining your face right now? Once I look at you at a wrong angle, you might accidentally vanish into thin air”, Crash squints at Marty and outlines the shape of his face in the air with his fingers. Marty smiles.

“Ain’t got no plans on vanishing in the near future. I like it how you’re talking so smoothly”.

“Or else, it might as well turn out you’re a fucking angel of some kind. Gonna grow yourself a pair of wings and take off”, Crash muses on.  “And I’m gonna stay here trying to remember the color of your tie”.

For some reason Marty thinks it sounded pretty darn romantic. He winces.

“You married?” Crash asks him out of the blue.

The question is so unexpected that Marty gets confused mid-sentence. His first reaction is to look at his hand, a wedding ring still on his finger.

“Divorced”.

“Children?” Crash circles his chin with his index finger, eyes fixed on Marty’s hands.

“Two girls. Haven’t seen them in eternity ...”

They are silent, Crash allows Marty to dwell in his thoughts and memories. Then Marty clears his throat and asks quietly,

“What about you?”

“Once. Divorced. I had a daughter”.

“Had?”

“She passed”.

Marty furrows his brows and focuses on his glass of whiskey.

“I'm ... I'm sorry, man”.

“Ah, it’s okay.”

Marty establishes a habit of visiting this place, not for a show or drinks, but for these late night conversations at the bar counter. He wants to listen to Crash, to his thoughts about the world, people and the smell of colors. "Come watch my act", Crash reminds him every now and then, but Marty is hesitant. He keeps trying to find out his real name. But Crash remains Crash.

That one unfortunate evening a group of three guys shows up at the bar, looking all scary and important. Two of them are huge as bricks and the third one is smaller and older, spotting an impressive beer belly. Marty will learn later that this one is the owner of the club. But now he’s just a stranger. The three of them take lively interest in Marty and Crash all of a sudden, and head in their direction. Chris (that’s the name of the bartender) bolts upright, soon as he notices them, starts wiping glasses with doubled heartiness, trying to avoid any eye contact.

“Hey! Crash, my man!” the fat one exclaims and puts a possessive hand on Crash’s shoulder. Crash smiles nervously. “Why don’t you introduce us to your new buddy?”

“Hey, what's going on here?”  Marty leans forward, but Crash gestures for him to shut up.

“It’s fine, Marty”.

“Hope you won’t mind, Marty, if we take him away from you for a little private time?” With this, two huge thugs force Crash from his chair and start leading him away from the bar counter.

“Hey!” Marty jumps to his feet, catches up with them and grabs one by the shoulder, turning him around with all his force. ”I asked you a question! What's going on here? Where are you taking him?”

“Fuck off”, the brick-guy easily pushes him away. Then Marty takes out his badge.

“Easy, motherfucker! I’m police!” He rages, feeling his anger coiling inside his chest.

But those twoassholes only laugh at him. The fat one emerges from behind the wall of their backs. He looks at Marty, then back at Crash. He nods knowingly now, and with his index finger he stabs Crash painfully several times in the chest.

“So you‘re fooling around with police now, boy?” His voice is dangerously sweet. Then, turning to Marty. “Go safe, officer, and rest assured, we will have a nice elucidative talk with him”.

And they just turn their backs to Marty and keep walking, dragging Crash away. Marty’s bewildered.

“Now you wait!” he again tries to stop them, but is met with a heavy blow to his chest.

“Better get the fuck out of here, cop”, one of them threatens him. “Otherwise, it will get real dirty for both of you”.

“Marty” Crash calls out to him cautiously.  “You go, don’t worry about me”.

They are gone, just like that, heavy doors slam shut after them and Marty remains standing in the middle of the lounge, his eyes full of a childish despair and stinging tears of powerless rage. As a law enforcement, what can he possibly do in a situation like that but to stand by and watch while the power players thrive on injustice. He returns to his car, gets behind the wheel, his heart is heavy, and for a few minutes he just stares at a vacant point. “Fuck!" he snaps, slams the steering wheel with his fist. "Fucking assholes! Damn it!” His mind is invaded with dark thoughts, they stumble across one another, scattering each other in a mess, but after a while he gets quiet, calms down, takes a deep breath and leans back in his seat, his lips pressed tightly in hateful resoluteness. Marty watches full moon coming out from behind the clouds, then hiding again, as if not daring to show her beautiful pale face, when, perhaps, a few hours later, out of the back door a tall thin shadow of a man emerges. The shadow seems weak, wounded and broken. Marty starts the engine and the headlights draw the man out of the darkness. He is swaying on his weak legs, spits on the pavement and shields his eyes from the bright light with his arm. Marty pushes the gas pedal and drives up to him.

“Hey, buddy”, he calls softly, lowering the side window.

Crash looks at him blankly. A huge shiner on the right side of his face, his lip is split and apparently he left some blood on the pavement. He doesn’t seem to recognize Marty.

“Crash,” Marty calls him again, not knowing that high-pitched sound of his own voice, as if it he’s trying to lure a frightened wild cat, who’s just escaped from a pack of dogs. “Crash”.

“Marty ...?”

“Get in the car, man. Come on”.

Marty leans to the right and opens the latch on the door by the passenger seat.

Crash stands rooted to the ground.

“Come on, get in”, Marty pats the seat next to him as if this will coerce Crash to action. Marty smiles affectionately. “What, you afraid of me or something? Don’t be, I just wanna take you away from here. To safety. Come on”.

“Should I trust you?”

“Just gonna take you to my place. Away from this darn shithole”, he stares at Crash, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “Get in the car. I just wanna take you home”.

The last argument seems to work. Crash gets in the car, slowly shutting the door behind him and hissing with pain.

Marty doesn’t ask him about what happened on the way. He knows already. No word utters Crash.

Marty opens the door and lets him in. Crash staggers into the dim room, looks around curiously, rests his attention on the book shelves, framed photos and notes to himself the traces of forgotten family life. But still he sees the room full of life, filled with light.

“You don’t bother much in terms of furniture”, he observes.

Marty closes the door behind him and walks around the room, observing Crash.

“Not much left really, after Maggie left. Just enough for simple existence”, he scratches his head.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall to the right. I'll show you”.

Marty turns on the light in the bathroom and for the first time since the damn incident he sees Crash’s face.

“Won’t be dancing for a while?” he comments with no particular reason. Crash stretches his lips into an ironic half-smile.

“Fuck ‘em”, he turns the faucet on, leans over and gets a mouthful of water. When he spits it back, it’s scarlet. Marty winces as if he himself has a mouthful of blood.

“Is it all cause of me?” he asks softly.

Crash pauses, looks up, catching him into a focus of his good eye.

“No, nothin’ like that. Knew I had it coming, one way or another. Martin, give me some personal space here, will ya? “ Marty steps back and Crash shuts the door. He returns to the kitchen, opens the fridge and late remembers that it is as empty as his current life. He closes it back, takes a bottle of whiskey instead. He pours one glass for himself, one for Crash, drinks it slowly. The investigation of the case has been stalled. And what he’s going to say to Quesada, when he learns that Marty’s been investigating something completely different. What is this mystery - Crash and why did he even bring him to his house? Marty might not be a true detective, but this time he feels he has to get to the truth.

Crash returns from the bathroom, steps into the kitchen and sits down at the table in front of Marty. He empties his glass in one long gulp, looks around the kitchen, and Marty notes that he’s still a little shaky, notes a deep cut on his lower lip, blood still oozing from it. Marty fights back a desire to reach out to him.

“You can sleep on the couch. Tomorrow I’ll be off for work. You can stay…

_(What are you even thinking?)_

…I’m not gonna protest”.

Crash circles the rim of the empty glass with tips of his fingers.

“Thank you. I owe you...”.

“Don’t mention it”

“No, I mean it. Martin. Ask me anything you want”.

_(What can I possibly ask of you now, for Christ’s sake?)_

“I want nothing from you, okay?” His lips curl into a smirk. “A lap dance, maybe though”.

Crash smiles, almost shyly, and lowers his eyes; Marty watches the way smile cuts dimples into his cheeks.

“Just kidding”.

Crash, still smiling with one side of his mouth, throws Marty another look, gets up from the table and heads for the couch. He takes off his leather jacket, drops down on the pillows and sighs heavily. Strained muscles under his wife beater relax slowly. He hangs his tattooed arm off the couch and dissolves into the pillows completely. Marty feels his heart brighten up with realization that his house is not so empty anymore, but he also feels sharp stings of pity for the poor fellow. He listens to Crash’s even breathing for a while, then gets up and retires to his bedroom. On his way he gets a blanket from a closet and puts it over Crash, careful not to wake him up. Looks like he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Marty lingers over him, watching the shadows play on his face, a curl of soft hair falling over his relaxed features. He catches himself thinking that this is way too much and hurries to his room.

His sleep is troubled, filled with fragments of memories and illusion. He dreams of his childhood, of one particular holiday by the sea, then suddenly he is at the bar again with Crash, looks at him thoughtfully, while he’s circling the rim of his glass with his long fingers, his lips moving as if he’s telling Marty something, but Marty can hear no sound. He can only focus on those eyes, full of sadness. And he knows for sure he doesn’t need to hear what Crash is saying, he can read it all in his eyes - he tells him, how he’s been born again, tells him about wings and the transience of time, that all the roads lead to darkness. Marty is all eyes, listening to him with his body bend forward, he sits very close, if it was a reality, he would probably balk his knees into Crash. _"No. This one, you cannot tame”, he_ hears someone's words in his head and his gaze lingers on the bird spreading its wings on Crash’s arm. “ _Try keeping it on your wrist."_ Then he leans over to Crash and kisses him on the lips. Crash surrenders to him and kisses back, opens his mouth for him, as if he’s been waiting just for this, and the world spins. He kisses him hard and won’t stop, not at any price.Marty slides off the chair and turns Crash a bit, never breaking a kiss, he senses his hot back against his chest and grinds against his ass while Crash is leaning into him, grinding back…

Marty wakes up with a loud gasp. His heart is pounding like hummer and his body burns; drowning in want, almost painful. Just a fucking dream! Such a good fucking dream. Before he knows it, Marty is on his feet and in the guest-room where he left Crash on the couch. He does not know what he’s doing, maybe he needs just one touch. However, the couch is empty. Crash is not in the bathroom either, and only later Marty discovers a scribbled note on his desk.

 _Thank you for letting me stay. Sorry I rob your fridge_. _Crash._

Son of a bitch. Marty rubs his eyes and looks reproachfully at the crumpled blanket, as if it is to blame for all the misfortunes.

He gets back to his job, hoping secretly that Crash will be back, but hope fades away with each passing day. Marty starts to worry when he discovers that Crash haven’t come to the club as well (yes, he checked even there). Chris, the bartender, only shrugs his shoulders and looking around cautiously, whispers to Marty that no one’s seen Crash for the past few days and that if he returns, he will have a very hard time. Marty shouldn’t hang around here either. Marty is worried and angry with himself for getting into this shit. Where’d he gone? Where is he now? Is he dying in a ditch somewhere?

A week later Marty only wonders if it’s the way things should be after all. Yet he knows not whether he himself can sleep, but it is obvious he’s dwelling somewhere between reality and illusion, because at some point he’s scared out of his mind of the noise he hears. Lumbering steps of approaching darkness, getting closer, fixing on him. He snaps into reality and it’s nothing more that the roar of the engine, the rustling of tires on smooth warm pavement outside.

Shadows are scattering all over the walls of the room, scared off by the lights, and Marty listens as the car drives up into his yard. Is it Maggie? Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he takes off the chain on the lock and opens the door. Crash is standing there. His eyes are red and tired, obviously, he didn’t have much sleep. But his hair is well-groomed and brushed back; he’s well-dressed, stylish even, black jeans clinging to his lithe legs, leather jacket and heavy boots with chains. Marty can’t help smiling.

“What, working again?” He asks. “You sure it’s the right door, buddy?”

Crash is swaying from side to side. He certainly did fight the sleepiness not only with coffee.

“Yep. Just came to fulfill my promise”.

Marty tries hard to think. ”What promise?”

Crash says nothing, finishes his cigarette, throws the butt right on the lawn and passes puzzled Marty by, going inside. The clanking of chains on his boots gently bounces off the empty walls. Marty is confused. He has no idea where to start and how to react.

“Do you want ... “. Though offering a drink to this guy would be superfluous, so instead he asks outright. “Where have you been?” Crash still ignores him, comes up to one of the shelves and goes over the books there curiously, rising on his tiptoes a little to reach higher.

“Uh, you’ve got a radio! Great”, he turns it on and starts tuning the channels.

“Crash, listen, don’t wanna sound rude, but ... can you explain to me a little bit what the fuck this is all about ...”

“Damn, Marty. Your total lack of sensitivity won’t cease to shock me. It is no wonder your wife left you”

“You know what ...”

“Sit down on the couch“, Crash turns his back to the radio, which now is playing a strange haunting melody, like the one Marty just heard in a dream.

“What the hell?”

“Marty. Please”

Crash takes off his jacket.

Only then Marty begins to grasp what’s going on. He remembers what promise Crash is talking about. But who could’ve thought he would accept the challenge seriously. And the way he’s dressed – is it all just for him? Did he fucking come back here just for this? Marty sits down on the couch, feeling slight weakness in his legs.

“You fucking serious?”

In response, the leather jacket flies in his face. Marty catches it and straightens it in his lap, feeling the feathered pattern under his fingers. One single verse interrupts the cacophony of sounds from the radio, like a prayer, like a moan. And after it the music levels down, acquires rhythm and beauty.

Crash slowly takes off his shirt, his hips swaying slightly to the music and damn it, Marty’s throat is dry. He keeps feeling the pattern on the jacket with his fingers, not taking his eyes off the sight that unfolds in front of him. This is all just for him. Crash turns his back to him, slowly, as if in a dream, he turns his head slightly, his eyes half closed, long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. He breathes out deeply and starts pulling the belt, loop by loop, out from his jeans, slowly at first, then with a quick skillful motion of his hand – out to the very end.  He throws the belt on the floor and his jeans slide down, revealing dimples on his lower back. Marty wants to come up to him, to touch him, Crash begs for it. But he can’t move. Only his fingers sliding nervously over the leather jacket, his consciousness projects lines of Crash’s body on the hard leather. A knowing smile is playing on Crash’s lips for a moment, he turns away and chuckles, barely audible. Puts his hands on his back, palms down, slides them down his body to his tight ass. He squeezes it roughly.

“Do you want to touch this?” Marty feels the meaning of the question goes straight to his dick, makes him instantly hard.

 “Fuck ...yeah “

“Mmhm “, Crash teases, bends forward slightly, so that the fabric fits tight around his ass. He unzips his fly and his jeans fall down to the knees, revealing his thighs and his slim legs. With one deft motion, he pulls the jeans off, which leaves him only in one piece of tiny leather underwear and his boots with heavy chains. Crash turns to face Marty then. A small triangle of fabric barely covers him up, he’s hard, too. Crash goes up to him, close, the music continues to pour over them. Marty’s hands are immediately drawn to a thin elastic band of his underwear, it is so easy to pull off, just one tag and his teaser will be stripped of the last obstacle. But Crash stops him.

“No, you can’t. Not yet”, he smiles, while still struggling with those hands Marty can’t keep to himself. Crash puts one knee on the couch, looms over Marty. He takes his leather jacket off his lap and casts it aside. Slides his fingers over Marty’s thigh, leans closely, so that his cheek brushes Marty’s, his lips touch his ear lobe ever so lightly.

“Want you,” he breathes hotly in his ear and Marty draws the air in noisily. Crash straightens back up, looks at Marty fixedly, his fingers are playing hesitantly with the tiny elastic band of his underwear, lowering it bit by bit. Time freezes around them, they look at each other, overwhelmed, drunk on each other. Crash blinks slowly several times, and suddenly his hot tears are falling on Marty’s face. He quickly wipes them away from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Marty asks. Crash shakes his head. Looks at Marty and squints.

“You shinin’ so fucking brightly is what” He puts his hands on Marty’s shoulders.

Marty smiles. How can one ever get used to this way of world perception, to the fact that Crash’s senses are aggravated all at once. He’s like an open book then, so vulnerable, and it is pretty darn touching. Marty strokes his thighs soothingly, gently nudging him closer.

“What do I taste like?” he whispers, knowing that his voice echoes in a kaleidoscope of colors in the fevered mind.

“Sweet as honey”, Crash licks his lips and Marty can’t take it anymore. He pulls the underwear by the band and it breaks. Crash tries to hold it with his hand instinctively in the most tempting way. Marty doesn’t let him, leans in to kiss his stomach, kisses his way down illiberally and pulls Crash to his lap, enfolding him in his arms completely. Their kiss is passionate; Crash rubs against him, making those small lovely noises. He pulls at Marty’s shirt, helps him get rid of it, unzips his pants and slides his warm hand in, his fingers finding him, touching him and working him so nicely, Marty forgets to breathe, until he’s on the verge of coming in  Crash’s skillful hands. He isn’t quite fully aware of what he’s doing, stroking smooth skin on Crash’s back, running his hands in circles, lower, until he’s slipping two fingers into the cleft of his ass. Crash bends into the touch sharply, his eyes widen in surprise. He is all senses, a bundle of nerves. Marty’s quietly rejoicing in his reactions, presses his fingers on the sensitive spot and Crash moans wantonly, completely at his mercy. Marty presses his index finger further, into the coveted heat and crooks it inside slightly. Crash is breathing erratically; beads of sweat appear on his forehead and cheekbones. When Marty pulls him closer, he feels pre-come on his dick, smearing all over his stomach. Jeez, he’s hardly even done anything yet, and Crash is already melting in his hands like a candle, overflowing with wax.

“Wait a second”, Crash whispers breathlessly in his ear. He leaves a trail of quick wet kisses on his cheek and his neck, on the corner of his lips. Staying in Marty’s lap, he reaches for his jacket, pulls a small jar from a pocket and Marty starts feeling dizzy.

“That’s how you want it?”

Crash doesn’t answer, silently loosening up the lid on the jar with his long nimble fingers.

“Do we even need it?” Marty wiggles his eyebrows, tracing his fingers on the wet smears on his stomach. Crash looks down at him, his eyes dark and clouded, half-lidded with dark lashes. “You're so kind to me, Marty”, he says, without a hint of irony in his voice and Marty doesn’t get it why Crash would say it all of a sudden. However, his confusion is left behind when the jar lid is removed at last. Crash puts one hand on Marty’s shoulder for support, and hides another one behind his back. He closes his eyes, sinking down on his fingers and throws his head back, straddles his legs a little wider. Marty’s surprised he hasn’t come just from the sight of him. Crash doesn’t bother much preparing himself, he’s in a hurry, his cheeks flushed. He takes Marty’s dick in the same hand, lubricates it thoroughly.

“Will you let me?” he asks.

“Fuck, if you ain’t doing it yourself, I’m gonna take you by force”, Marty hasn’t been so hard since his teenage days. Crash smiles with those maddening dimples on his cheeks. A curly lock of hair falls over his forehead, brushes Marty’s face as he leans to kiss him, slips his tongue inside Marty’s mouth, pushing down onto him completely in one smooth move. The music dies down and the silence is filled only with their twitching breath and wet slap of their bodies. They look keenly at each other, their noses touching, half-open lips sharing gulps of air inches from one another. Crash’s body bends, stretches like a perfect string, trembles under  Marty’s hands, he slams himself down on Marty’s dick, again and again ruthlessly and he comes, clinging to him. Marty takes up the initiative then, encloses Crash’s flaccid body in his hands and pushes in a couple more times before his own orgasm spills inside this sweet tightness, so hot and intense, he’s about to start feeling colors himself. Maybe this synesthesia thing is contagious? They don’t seem to come to senses after the crazy ride, still looking at each other through the clouded perception, nothing in it but the outlines of their features, clear and precise as ever, real as anything can ever be. Over and over, they become aware of this and then they kiss, lips barely touching. Marty holds Crash gently in his arms, afraid to even stir and destroy this magic. He’s never felt so good, and if he could, he would remain here inside of him forever. Crash puts his hands on Marty’s chest humbly, tamed, allowing to be embraced, to feel protected. The world does not exist for both of them, the world may sink into oblivion, they have each other.

***

In the morning Crash disappears again. But not secretly this time, at night, he wakes Marty up and promises he would come back as soon as he finishes his job. And Marty too tired and sleepy to protest, and the promise is good enough. However, in the morning he regrets letting him go. Bad feeling creeps into his heart, he gets dressed, takes his badge and his gun and drives to the ill-fated club. When he dashes towards the staircase, he becomes immediately aware of several police cars parked at the entrance. There’s no one inside, and Marty feels cold sweat beading on his brow, fear creeping up his spine. He rushes past the guards and into the red-and-blue space of a strip bar, where he finds a scene completely different from his hopes but freakishly similar to his fears. The curtain is spattered with blood, and the bar is full of cops and medics. Marty storms into the secret room, pulls back the bloody haze of a curtain and sees at least ten dead bodies lying on the floor around the stage. What happened here?

Completely daunted, Marty comes back into the bar, comes up to one of the police officers, shows his badge and asks, trying to keep his voice steady “What happened here?”

“Not sure, man, they say, there was a shooting. Lot of people died”.

“What…who else got hurt? What about the dancers?”

The policeman only shrugs his shoulders, but next moment Marty sees Crash – thanks God - his arm is bandaged; a medic is fuzzing around him. Crash also notices him and waves his good hand.

“Came to see my act at last?” he asks when Marty walks up to him. Marty gets down on one knee in front of him, puts his hands on his thighs, gripping the fabric of his pants between his fingers.

“You all right…” Marty either asks or concludes, showing the gust of all kinds of emotions he’s just experienced. “What’s with your arm now?”

“Got shot. Ruined fucking favorite tattoo of mine”.

“Why would you even come here again, you idiot?”

Crash refuses to look him in the eye.

“Had to do my job”.

“Christ. I don’t get you”.

“Last night I realized it’s time to put an end to this kind of life. It’s no accident I met you. You came to my existence for a reason, Marty. Need to move on now”, he sticks out his wounded arm slightly. “Whatever the cost”.

“What happened here?”

“My hard work came down the drain. That’s what happened”, Crash gently touches his bandage and hisses in pain, a blood stain already showing up there. “And I got to take part in a shooting”, he adds, not without fucking pride.

“In a shooting, huh? Really? You're fucking crazy son of ...”

Crash pulls out a badge from inside pocket of his leather vest.

“Detective Rustin Cohle”, he introduces himself. “Guess you blew my undercover off”.

Marty’s so astounded he’s speechless for a moment.

“What the fuck…so that’s your real name, after all? “He mutters. “Jesus Christ, don't tell me I got myself a fucking detective?”

“Moreover, detective, I got us a suspect. I’m sure you’ll be interested in what he has to say”.


End file.
